A Broken Crown and a Mending Realm
by TheRealSokka
Summary: A small story of how the reign of the new Stark king begins, and how his family scatters to the winds. And why that doesn't have to be a bad thing.


His first day as a king doesn't feel any different to Bran Stark than the previous one.

He wakes up from a dream – or a vision; the two have become nigh indistinguishable – to find himself in a large bed that isn't his own. The room is new, too. Not even the Raven has a memory of it. But someone has had the foresight to hammer railings into the walls and leave his wheelchair close to the bed.

No sooner has he climbed into it and thrown on a tunic than the door opens and Brienne of Tarth steps in, in full armour, to take him to the lords' chamber.

"Are you ready, Your Grace?" she asks, giving a small bow.

That is something he will have to get used to. The 'Your Grace' as well as the fact that people will routinely ask him for his opinion now. And the bowing, though Bran thinks he will be able to abolish that, at least. The Three Eyed Raven is used to many things, but respect and homage is not one of them.

Ser Brienne is silent the entire way, and that suits Bran fine. He is aware how much and how well the tall woman cares for his sisters, whereas she barely knows the boy whose wheelchair she is pushing now. In time, that may change. The knight doesn't know it yet, but she will be the first member of Bran's kingsguard. It was a very natural decision: She has another's chapter to finish, and her own yet to write. Bran has a feeling she will write both well.

This, also, is new: he now has the power to impact and change the events he sees. The responsibility is now twofold, and he will have to take more care than ever.

Careful is exactly how his reign begins. Small are the first steps, and very much in line with tradition: The lords continue to argue with each other; Tullys squabbling with Ironborn; Stormlanders with Dornish. But since rebuilding the city and the country takes precedence over everything else, everyone has one point to agree on, at least. That forms the foundation for the first few days and weeks of common work. By then, Tyrion has assembled a framework of a Small Council to govern the remaining six kingdoms more effectively.

For Bran it is a period of learning and adjusting more than anything. It is also a time of farewells.

First it is Jon, who has to leave for the Wall. His brother has accepted his sentence with grace – and a small amount of relief, if Bran reads him correctly. While Bran was being proclaimed the Broken King, he has come very close to being broken himself. Now, as Jon steps out of the Red Keep, Bran can still see the cracks, but they have slowly started to mend. Time will do its part, as will the stark cold of home – where he is going. All his siblings have come to the docks to wish him farewell.

None of them says it, but most likely it is a farewell forever. Years ago, maybe their brother could have ridden down to Winterfell, or even King's Landing, once in a while, looking for new recruits. As it stands, the Night's Watch hardly needs to recruit people for anything anymore. And the south holds nothing more for Jon – Bran doesn't need the Raven's power to see that. It is written all over his brother's face.

A part of Bran is sad to see him go. Another is satisfied that Jon Snow is back where he is supposed to be, that his life has drawn a perfect circle and come back to where he started. And a third is happy for his brother because _he_ might finally come to be happy. Bran could try to have a look, try to see if that is true, but he doesn't. The future is so much more muddled than the past – and whatever happens from now on is no one's business but Jon's.

Next to leave is Sansa. She has a castle to rebuild and a people to rule. She will do a formidable job with both – and in the process she has made things a lot more complicated for Bran, now king of only six kingdoms. Even still, there couldn't be a better ruler for the North than his sister. Bran tells her as much at their last meeting, and she graces him with a surprisingly long hug and a gentle warning: "Don't make a mess of things down here, little brother."

"You don't, either." he counters.

"I won't." she says. Her voice is full of confidence, but at the same time it is not a boast. It's a promise. She looks more like a queen nowadays, with her waist-long auburn hair and the air of authority that she has inherited from their mother.

* * *

Arya is the last to remain in the capital, at least for a while, to plan her voyage. Bran is a little surprised to see a lot of her during that time. She sits with him during meals, visits the godswood with him, and threatens the odd nobleman who has looked at Bran with disdain or made a rude comment behind his back. Even her quickly developing plans she goes through with him first. Maybe she wants to hold on to something familiar, just for a few more weeks (_like he does_).

Among other things, she also asks Bran for his help in finding a suitable ship for her journey. Bran passes the request on to his Master of Ships. Ser Davos agrees all too readily. To be honest, Bran suspects the old knight is very glad to get away from all the paperwork that his new position entails and to get his feet back on the planks of a ship, if only for a little while.

In the end, Bran lets himself be taken down to the harbour to find a small, slender black ship rocking gently in the king's dock, and Arya standing on the prow, wearing a smile that stretches from ear to ear. She sees him and waves, but makes no move to come down.

"Best ship this side of Westeros." Ser Davos pronounces, joining Bran. The pride in his voice is unmistakable. "Small, but sturdy and fast. She should withstand a fair number of storms, too. Perfect for long journeys, especially for ones without a clear destination."

"Oh, there's a destination, alright." Arya says. Bran hasn't even noticed her appear next to him. She's grinning at Davos: "There has to be something west of Westeros. I don't know what yet, but we'll find it."

"I'm sure you will, my lady." Davos throws the ship a slightly mournful look. "I'd love to come with ya, truth be told. But I fear my high-seafaring days are behind me."

"And you have responsibilities here." Bran reminds him gently.

"Thank you, Your Grace, for reminding me of that fact." Ser Davos agrees gruffly.

"You're welcome."

The knight turns to Arya, who is admiring her new ship. "I guess you are the pioneer now. Perhaps once you've charted a safe course, I'll visit these new lands in the west, too."

Arya smiles. "You'll be the first to get a map." she promises.

"Not Jon?" Bran questions.

The smile vanishes. "I don't think I'll see him again; do you?"

"You might."

"You know I won't." Arya turns her head away from them. "He'll probably freeze to death up there, the idiot. And there's a lot to see on the ocean, and a lot of danger. I probably won't even come back."

"I know you will."

His sister chuckles, turns back and flicks the side of his head. "Stop being all-knowing, Your Kingship. It's annoying."

Far too soon, the day of departure comes. The ship's new direwolf sail flies proudly in the wind that has picked up as soon as they have arrived at the docks.

_Listen to the wind, little lord_.

Bran doesn't know if he believes in sign, but in this moment he'd like to.

Arya is ready. She is wearing a dark leather jerkin, hardened to withstand the weather, with both Needle and the Catspaw tugged into her belt. Above all, she is wearing a look of determination and excitement. She is going sail her ship around the southern tip of Westeros, make one last stop in Oldtown – and then she'll be gone. Even Bran doesn't know what she is sailing into. He wishes he did, but at the same time he looks forward to her telling him once she returns. At some point.

Arya gives him a quick kiss on the forehead. She was never one for long goodbyes. "Don't make a mess of the place while I'm gone, little brother."

Bran can feel a smile stealing itself onto his lips. "You and Sansa are more alike than either of you want to admit."

Walking backwards towards the ship, his sister shoots him a smirk, easily side-stepping the coils of rope on the ground: "Way ahead of you with that realization. Don't worry. You'll catch on some day."

Bran is still smiling when the ship sets its sail and carries her out to sea, on her way into the unknown. While she is a far cry from the sister he once knew, Arya has not changed at all in some ways, and he finds that it brings back some of his own memories that he thought had long since been buried under the hoard of knowledge that is the Raven. He remembers. And it makes him smile.

_You'll catch on some day_. Arya is probably the one person who can say that to him with it being true.

* * *

The third month into his reign marks the first real challenge to the new king. With his family scattered to the winds, Bran finds himself alone in dealing with it. In a strange way, that almost makes it easier. And there is still Tyrion and his council to help him, which is probably the best he could ask for.

The problem is as unfortunate a development as it was predictable: the kingdom of Dorne is trying to secede from the realm. Spurred on by the Northerners newfound independence – and no doubt the need to strengthen his own grip on power, which is still in its infancy – the new Dornish prince declares Sunspear capital of the south and the principality of Dorne independent, to outrage of the other kingdoms – and mixed responses even from his own people.

Ravens arrive in King's Landing from close to all the Dornish houses, conversely affirming the prince's claims or reminding the king of their long, faithful service to the throne. The fear of war accompanies all of them, as it does the peasants from the Dornish mountains who arrive in the capital soon after, seeking justice for their lands being taken by the soldiers that the prince has stationed at his northern border.

Bran Stark hears their concerns, as he does those from his Hand and Master of Coin who fear for the integrity of the realm and his adjoining lands respectively – and he does nothing. The few remaining armies of the other five kingdoms remain where they are, much to the consternation of every one of his advisors, and presumably also the Dornish. All Bran the Broken does is bid his master of ships to start building more of the same, with a focus not on warships but on slow, heavy trading galleys. Davos Seaworth lifts his greying eyebrows at the command, but he doesn't question it. In that, he is one of the first to accept Bran's strange way of doing things.

The work of the council that now rules only five kingdoms continues almost as if nothing had happened. Contrary to the fears of the king's advisors, none of the other kingdoms feel compelled to follow the Dornish example. They have all lost too much in the wars to worry about anything but rebuilding for the time being.

Four months into Bran's reign, the next stepping stone rears its head: a panicked Lord of the Westerlands bursts into the small council meeting, stammering something about Casterly Rock's gold mines having run dry. Which apparently they have for quite some time. The following exchange between the king's Hand, Grand Maester and Master of Coin is something to behold:

"This is indeed a problem. I probably should have remembered that."

"Remembered? With all due respect; how could you forget about something like that?!"

"It has been a somewhat busy time since the wealth of Casterly Rock was last my concern, Grand Maester, forgive me."

"Yeah, yeah. Truth is; he's never been great at managing his wealth. Just spending it."

"Oh, that is rich, in the truest sense of the saying, coming from you. I distinctly recall that as Master of Coin, I entrusted you with such matters. How have _you_ failed to notice a kingdom-sized hole in your budget?"

"Probably because your scrooge of a father kept the entire thing under wraps, I'm guessing. This poor sod only just found out, and it's his bloody lordship. I wash my hands of this."

"If only you would."

"Oh, well. At least I can see a delicious irony coming from this: 'A Lannister doesn't have the coin to pay his debts.'"

"The whole bloody realm won't have the coin to pay its debts, pardon my language." Ser Davos breaks up their quarrel at last. He addresses the Lord of the Westerlands, who is looking a bit disgruntled having been called a 'poor sod': "The West is our most important source of income, my lord. If the gold is gone, we'll need another source of income. Have you made preparations in that direction?"

"Well – no." The lord glances around the table, his posture stiff. "There is simply no way to replace the mines. They accounted for almost all the fortune of the Westerlands…"

"My father would have found a way, made contingency plans." Tyrion muses. "Actually, I am willing to bet he did. Pity we can't ask him."

Bran speaks up for the first time: "Lord Tywin has indeed made a number of plans as soon as he learned the mines would run dry." It hasn't taken him long to find the necessary memories from the Raven's vast collection. He is getting better at ordering them now, and a small part of him is very pleased with that. "Most of them have been written down by his personal scribe at Casterly Rock. Plans for turning Lannisport into a great trading post, among other things. I suggest we find the man and ask for his copies."

He will never get used to the way people look at him, no matter how many times they do. This strange mix of consternation, awe and fear. Sometimes it reminds him of the way people used to look at Bran the cripple, even though the looks are nothing alike. Then as now, it still makes him uncomfortable in his skin.

"If – you say so, Your Grace." the Lord of the Westerlands says finally.

"We'll get to the planning right away." Tyrion quickly picks up the ball. Maybe he has sensed some of his king's discomfort. He throws a pointed look at Ser Bronn: "And with _we_, I mean the Master of Coin."

"Well, that is presumptuous of you to…"

"One more word and I will hit you." threatens Ser Brienne.

With her easily towering over her fellow knight – and anyone else – even when sat down, that effectively ends the debate.

* * *

Five months into Bran's reign, there is a terrible drought in Dorne. Reports of water rationing and food scarcity quickly find their way to the capital, and the crown offers its assistance. The prince of Dorne refuses.

Tyrion catches Bran in the godswood where he is enjoying the silence. The King's Hand is holding up a raven scroll and is looking equal parts impressed and annoyed. "Did you know this would happen?" he questions immediately, without bothering with greetings or titles.

"No." Bran replies.

"You must have had some inkling. Why else have we been hoarding food for the past two months, or lain down an unreasonable number of merchant ships?"

"Dorne has often experienced heavy droughts, in particular immediately after the winter." Bran concedes. "There hasn't been one in decades, so yes, it was likely to happen."

The King's Hand shakes his head: "Sometimes I wonder why we bother keeping a Master of Whisperers. Or a maester, for that matter. You seem to make do without them quite well."

"That is not fair to them. I know Sam would have come to the same conclusion, if he weren't so busy with his other duties. I have a lot more time to think about such things."

"And thus you've made the relevant preparations. With the food and water we have in our stores, we could feed our rebelling southern kingdom for a few weeks, at least, until more permanent measures are taken. But the Prince of Dorne has refused your offer of help." Tyrion pointed out.

Bran doesn't reply. He has gotten to know the other man well enough to be able to tell when he is actually talking to him or when he is talking just to hear his own thoughts and order them; the latter of which is the case here.

"Which just goes to show that the prince is an idiot." Tyrion continues. "No matter how secret he tries to keep this, the news that he refused will spread like wildfire. So now we just have to wait for his people to start starving until they demand his head, and then we bring in the much needed supplies, appease the country and return it to the realm."

Bran doesn't miss the little twitch of his mouth. "You suggest this, and disapprove of it at the same time." he states.

"Well – I had kind of hoped we were done with stepping over commoners' bodies to make politics." Tyrion grunts. He is tapping his chin thoughtfully. "A kinder, if more risky solution might be to smuggle the rations into the country without the lords realizing it, and making sure the people know who they have to thank for it…"

Bran cracks a small smile.

"…which is why Ser Davos has been at the docks all day, being busy around the ships. You are already sending him down there." Tyrion concludes with a regretful smile. "I apologize to my colleagues. Maybe I should question why you need a Hand, as well."

"I will always need a hand." Bran points out.

"Haha. _There_ is one reason to keep me around, at least. Your sense of humour still requires some work."

"If you say so, Lord Tyrion." There is a mockingbird in the trees above them. Bran can hear its song and he can't help it; his attention is already divided, only half on what the man in front of him is saying.

"So; Dorne won't starve; hopefully its people will see the sense in re-joining the Six Kingdoms; and we will have to make do without our Master of Ships for the coming weeks. That would be that dealt with for the time being, and I am mostly irrelevant in all of this. So far, so good. But in the meantime, I wanted to mention that an embassy from Lord Tully has arrived a few hours ago who claim to have urgent business with you. Something about a petty dispute with the crannogmen, from what I gathered."

The mockingbird is still singing.

There are a lot of responsibilities to being king – even for a king who can't fulfil most of them if they lie outside of his castle. _Especially_ for a king who also has a responsibility to look to the past as much as to the present. There is a lot. And how can that make room for a boy who just wants to fly sometimes?

"Would you deal with them, Tyrion? I would like to sit here a while longer."

"Of course." Tyrion nods and turns to leave. After a few steps, however, he suddenly seems to reconsider and turns back around: "If I might just say, you are a strange king to serve, King Bran." When there is no reply, the little lord continues: "I think I mean that in the best way. While I hate you for making me do this, I also can't help but enjoy working for a king who knows what he is doing and can make good decisions. Not that the competition in my resume is very high, granted."

Bran returns his eyes to him. He almost feels guilty. "You have that wrong, my lord. I don't make clever decisions; I'm just copying those of other men."

Tyrion doesn't laugh. As he looks at Bran, his expression is completely serious. "I wouldn't mind that if I were you. As long as you are picking good examples to choose from, which you are. That is a skill in itself."

Bran doesn't watch him leave from his wheelchair, but from up high through the eyes of the mockingbird. He watches as the little figure exits the godswood and disappears into the Red Keep. Then he beats his wings and flies.

Tyrion has questioned why he even needed a Small Council. One reason, and by far the most important to the boy, is this feeling: to be able to leave, just for a moment; to swoop down from the Red Keep and through the slowly rebuilding alleys of King's Landing; to soar through the sky and perch on a mast and breathe in the salty air. Without having to worry, or remember.

It is a good feeling. And since the night has ended, the Raven, the King and the Boy are finally free to experience it again, at least a little.

* * *

**Maybe I will someday add something that more resembles a plot to this story. Until then I'm just leaving this here and hope you had fun reading it.**


End file.
